


hana

by armethaumaturgy



Category: Elsword (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Experimental, Hanahaki AU, M/M, barista elsword, florist add, hanahaki, which means theres no capitalization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: there’s a boy at the corner of the street selling the prettiest flowers.





	hana

there’s a boy at the corner of the street selling the prettiest flowers.

he only ever has one kind, roses, which he tells with enthusiasm to everyone who asks are called ‘angel face’ roses. and their seller has a face to match their name as well; skin as white as snow, eyes pink like the sky during a sunup and a smile soft despite the sharpness of teeth it reveals.

he sells his flowers every day, without a fail. they’re always freshly cut and he has a green ribbon to tie a few together should someone ask him to. whether the sun blasts down from the sky or the clouds are hailing the earth below, he can always be found standing in his little spot.

sometimes he coughs. usually after he laughs or when he talks too much, when someone wants to hear about the flowers and what they mean. he seems to know so much about flowers, his usual customers are already well-versed in them as well. the florist is so frail, tall and gangly; he’s definitely not completely healthy. his coughing is normal.

his roses are so popular, they’re usually gone long before the time he used to leave, lunchtime. when that happens, he takes his beat up bucket and ribbon and walks over to the coffeeshop on the other side of the road.

he only has one order, couldn’t find it in himself to come up with anything else. so he always asks for a double cappuccino with chocolate syrup. the barista — the owner, at least he thinks since he’s always there — doesn’t even have to ask about the order. sometimes the coffee will be done and sitting, steaming hot, on the counter before the florist even gets to it.

he thanks the barista with flaming hair and takes his cup, one hand cradling its heat while the other swings the bucket. sometimes there’s a rose or two left and they end up in a vase by the checkout counter.

coffee in hand and flowerless, the boy leaves the coffeeshop and the street behind, hiding in a dark alley to let his coughing take over. the coffee sloshes around, dangerously close to spilling as he holds his stomach, falling to his knees where he starts clawing at his throat.

roses spill past his lips, one after another and then all at once, choking him. the barista smiled so vibrantly at him today. the bucket isn’t enough for today’s flowers.


End file.
